


A Case of Impregnability

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Gen, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:16:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't just want access to the Appledore vaults for himself. His employers have an interest, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case of Impregnability

**Author's Note:**

> For the trope_bingo 'au: apocalypse' square. An alternative ending to 'His Last Vow'.

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don't have to prove it — I just have to print it." Magnussen rose to his feet. "Speaking of news, you'll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me." He tutted. "Let's go outside. They'll be here shortly. Can't wait to see you arrested." 

As Magnussen strolled in the direction of the terrace, John turned to Sherlock. "Sherlock, do we have a plan?" 

The great detective stood silently, seemingly rooted to the spot. 

"Sherlock?" 

"John." The voice came as if drawn up from a great depth. "There's something important I've just remembered." 

"What?" 

"I never told you how I faked killing myself, back at the hospital." 

"Yeah, I know that." 

And only then did Sherlock turn to look at his companion. "I didn't." 

"Sorry... you _what?_ " 

Magnussen had been on the point of unlocking the terrace door, but something in John's tone, or perhaps just his raised voice, must have caught his attention. He swung round. 

"I died," Sherlock went on, still in the same quiet, level tone. "Same thing happened when Mary shot me. It's funny the things you forget." 

The skin of his forehead bulged, and split. A black bulb, glowing at one end with blue-white light, emerged. He held up his right hand, a wire-edged gunbarrel protruding from the palm. 

"Mr Magnussen," he said. "You could make a run for it, but it would be utterly pointless. I'll answer any reasonable questions. Oh, and by the way," he added, as a shadow fell across the window, "if you thought that was a helicopter overhead, you're mistaken." 

"It's a... Sherlock, it's a bloody flying saucer!" John shouted. 

"Yes, John, I think we can all see that. Well, Magnussen? Anything you want to know? Or perhaps you'll try and use all that wonderful knowledge to save yourself. I'd like to watch that." 

The newspaper magnate was backed against the French windows, his brow damp with sweat. "What are you?" he asked. 

"A puppet. A shell of flesh around some ingenious nanotechnology. Invented by a man even cleverer than you. I expect you'll meet him, one day." 

Magnussen tried to recapture his usual unperturbed manner, but couldn't quite pull it off. "This man is from another world, I presume?" 

"It goes by the name of Skaro. Not heard of it? Don't worry, Magnussen. It's heard of you. My employers know _all_ about you." 

"And what do you— Or should I say, what do they want with me?" 

"Haven't you worked that out already? That saucer up there isn't the only one. This world isn't yours any more. We're an invading army, Magnussen, and we want information on our enemy's weaknesses. We want the Appledore archive." 

"But he said it only exists in his head!" John interrupted. 

"Precisely." There was a flare of light from Sherlock's raised hand, and Magnussen crumpled to the ground. His voice became louder, more mechanical. "Charles Augustus Magnussen is acquired." 

⁂

The blur in front of Magnussen's eyes resolved itself into a ceiling, white and unremarkable. He tried to work out what had happened. He'd been unconscious... no, he realised, as the fuzziness faded from his mind. He must still be unconscious. He was lying among the precisely-collated shelves of his mind palace. Rank upon rank, the books and box files lined the walls, each one describing the weaknesses of a different person in exquisite detail. 

He tried to stand, but found he couldn't move so much as an eyelid. Staring helplessly up, Tantalus-like, at his archive, he heard quiet footsteps and the whirr of servo motors. The figure of a man appeared in his field of vision. 

"Mr Magnussen." It was Sherlock Holmes, of course; his grey human eyes held Magnussen's, as did the blue glow of the eyestalk above them. Another shape glided into view: a vaguely cone-shaped machine, hemisphere-studded, dome-topped, midnight-black. "And this is... let's say, my probation officer. Welcome to my archive." 

" _Your_ archive," Magnussen repeated, feeling the logic of the analogy closing around him like chains. 

"That's what it is, now. And for ever." Sherlock crouched down and ran his hand down Magnussen's cheek; it felt cold and metallic. "And very soon, you'll find out just how deep that ownership runs. You're a genius, Magnussen — just like I was. The Daleks can _always_ find a use for a genius."


End file.
